


somewhere between past and present

by leslytherinphoenix



Category: Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/F, Implied Rape/Non-Con (Canon typical), Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5287580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslytherinphoenix/pseuds/leslytherinphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants to say I love you, never do that again, the words are on her tongue and she can feel them already twisting in the air. Something inside her protests, kicking and screaming. Jessica holds back. “God damn you,” she breathes, and it’s not I love you, but Christ, it’s close enough.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Five times Jessica thought about telling Trish she loved her and the one time she did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere between past and present

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to tumblr users carmillanerdstein, peggysjarvis, and schraiser for consultation & advice during the writing process.

I

 

Trish stares at the wall, fingertips absentmindedly drawing circles on the bedspread. Jessica watches her from the window. The bruise on Trish’s forearm is fading and yellow at the edges already; her hair is wet and dripping water onto her shirt. Under the spots where it makes the cloth see-through, Jessica can see the bruise on Trish’s shoulder, new and purple and swollen.

 

“I’m sorry about that.” Jessica takes a step forward. Trish doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move except to continue tracing shapes on the bedspread. “It--it was an accident. The elevator was smaller than I predicted.”

 

Tilting her head slightly to the side, Trish turns to look at Jessica. “You carried me out of my mother’s apartment,” she says. She hasn’t spoken since last night, since after she stopped crying. “Jess, we have to go back.”

 

Immediately, Jessica shakes her head. “I won’t allow that.”

 

“She’s my _mom_.” Trish’s eyes are red. “She’s--”

 

“Singlehandedly responsible for most of the bruises on your body.” Jessica walks the rest of the way to bed, stopping a foot away from where Trish is sitting. “And I promise I’m sorry about the one I’m responsible for, but I don’t think she is.” She pauses. “You’re not going back. Neither of us are.”

 

Trish looks away. “Then what now?” Her voice breaks. She’s tearing up again. Jessica sits down on the bed next to her and tries to decide whether she should touch her or not.

 

“We go anywhere but back.” Jessica decides to just move closer and Trish puts her head on Jessica’s shoulder, hair still wet. Jessica breathes out and leans her head against Trish’s. She can smell the hotel’s shampoo, its conditioner.

 

“How did you even get this room?” Trish asks.

 

Jessica hesitates. “Um, remember all that online shopping you did earlier this year?”

 

“Yes….?”

 

“And you had me enter in all the information because you were too lazy?”

 

“What does that have to do with anything?”

 

“I may have memorized your credit card number. And the security code.”

 

Trish scoffs. “Really? Prioritize much?”

 

“It’s your money, Trish.” Jessica laces her hands together and places them on her lap. “We’ll get an apartment. You won’t have to deal with her anymore.”

 

Silence, for a moment. Trish lifts her head off of Jess’s shoulder and goes back to staring at the wall. Jessica thinks Trish is convinced, that both of them will be fine from now on, that (not that Jessica minds it) she won’t have to save Trish from anyone ever again. Then Trish clears her throat. “I don’t know. She’s still my mother, Jess.”

 

“Who cares?” Jessica asks and stands up. “You don’t owe her shit; you never did.” Trish closes her eyes and lowers her head. “Trish, I--” _I love you and you deserve better,_ Jessica wants to say. The words are in her mouth, on her lips, but something catches in her throat. “You don’t have to have anything to do with her.” Trish turns and she’s crying. “It’s okay.” Now Jessica can feel her own eyes tearing up. “You can leave.”

 

Trish is quiet for a minute. Jessica sits back down on the bed, propping herself with her hands. Sirens wail outside and for a moment, Jessica has a ridiculous paranoid vision of Dorothy Walker frantically calling the police with a panicked story of kidnapping and the unhinged orphan she took in. A few seconds later, the sirens begin to disappear into the distance. The image fades.

 

A strange, choked sound comes from Trish’s direction, and when Jessica looks over at her, she’s laughing, strangely, or trying to. “You’re right,” Trish says, and runs a hand through her hair, flinging droplets of water onto the bed.

 

Jessica blinks. “I am?”

 

“You are.” Trish leans back, using her elbows as support.

 

Surprised, Jessica coughs. “I was ready to carry you out of here.”

 

Trish looks Jessica dead in the eye. “That won’t be necessary.”

 

II

 

“No!” Jess shoots upright, throwing the lamp on the bedside table across the room so hard it breaks the window.

 

Footsteps scramble across the hall and Trish rushes into the room, surveying the damage with a panicked expression. Jessica’s blanket is on the ground, the lamp’s power cord is ripped out of the wall and the lamp is broken on the windowsill. “Is everything--are you--”

 

“Fine.” Jessica’s hugging her knees to her chest, glaring at the moonlight streaming through the broken glass.

 

Trish takes a step back, lingering in the doorway. “You’re not.”

 

“Can you just…. stay?” Jessica looks up. “Please, Trish.”

 

Nodding, Trish moves towards her. “Can I….” she motions at the bed.

 

“Yeah.” Jessica squeezes her legs tighter. “Sit.” The room seems too big and too small at the same time. The walls are both too far apart-- _anyone could be hiding here,_ the paranoid part of her brain that seems to dominate these days says--and too close together, like a cage, like the ceiling will come down and press on her chest like a body.

 

Silence hangs over them, fog-like. Jessica sighs after a few minutes and slowly lets go of her knees.  

 

“Do you want me to get your blanket?” Trish asks.

 

Jessica nods. Trish retrieves the blanket from the floor, airs it out, and lets it flutter down over Jessica’s legs. She smoothes it over and sits. The bed creaks under their combined weight, but the room is otherwise quiet; neither of them say anything. Trish swings her legs up on the mattress.

 

“Thanks.” Jessica slides down in the bed. Trish tilts her head and watches her, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s just hard to--” she breaks off.

 

“Nightmares?” Trish’s voice is quiet, like she is afraid of waking what cannot sleep.

 

Covering her mouth with her hand, Jessica nods.  

 

Trish lowers her hand onto the mattress and lets it rest next to Jessica, enough to serve as a reminder that she’s there without getting too close. “I’ll stay.” Jessica doesn’t look at her. “You can sleep. I’ll be here.”

 

_I love you_ , Jessica wants to say as she turns and lies on her side. _I love you,_ she thinks again, when she wakes two hours later and Trish is still sitting there, dozing off a little, but instead, she just turns again, buries her face in the pillow, and goes back to sleep.

 

III

 

She sees Jessica clambering inelegantly onto her balcony, looking like she did the day she walked out of Trish’s apartment and never came back. The moment seems to stretch on forever--her interns jabbering by the kitchen counter, the second where Trish isn’t sure if Jessica is looking at her or not. Trish tries to make her face communicate what she cannot say yet: _don’t leave. I’ve seen you already._

And Jessica doesn’t. Miraculously. Trish gets the interns to leave and pushes the door open. It’s cold; the air bites into Trish’s skin, wind blowing through her thin sweater. She considers asking Jessica if she wants to come in, but what comes out of her mouth instead is, “you could’ve used the door.”

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d answer,” Jessica says, and Trish thinks _of course I would, why would you even question that._ “It’s important,” Jessica continues, and she really does look the same, mostly. Her jacket is a little weathered. Her voice is flatter, more apathetic. Still, it’s better than expected.

 

Trish raises an eyebrow. “It must be.” She can’t keep the hurt from crawling into her voice. She always did wear her emotions close to the surface, an old acting habit she’s never been able to break.

 

Jessica looks down, shifts her weight. “It’s, uh, for a case.”

 

Of course. “Right.” Trish really isn’t doing a good job of hiding anything, but it’s been six months and she can’t help feeling all the collective guilt and worry pile up on her at the same time in that exact moment. “You became a…” she pauses. “Private eye.”

 

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” Jessica’s tone is hard to read. Her face remains carefully blank.

 

Trish makes an effort not to sound emotional. “Making sure you weren’t dead, since you never called.”

 

Jessica stares off to the side, nods, and Trish thinks she’s about to say something, an apology, maybe, but then: “I need money.”

 

Scoffing, Trish turns, unable to look at Jessica in that moment; Jessica, who seems to be opaque glass unaware that she can break other things, too, instead of just being broken herself. “Wow, uh.” Trish paces in the doorway and considers just going back into the house and locking the door. At the last moment, she leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “I don’t even know what to say.” It’s true.

 

“It’s important.”

 

“You said,” Trish starts, and wants to pause, to let Jessica explain herself, but decides to just keep talking. “But I don’t hear from you for months, six months, actually--”

 

“I needed breathing room.”

 

“You shut me out.” Trish stares at Jessica with a kind of ferocity she never thought she could muster for her. “And now you show up here asking for _money_?”

 

Not even help. Just money. Like Trish could have never done anything else for her.

 

“This was a bad idea,” Jessica says, and Trish is about to scoff and say _well, yes,_ but then she turns to leave and Trish can’t bear it, can’t bear to see Jessica flying down the wall of her apartment building and disappearing into the night.

 

She takes a breath and thinks _to hell with this, you’re not going again._ “No, you talk to me. You tell me what the hell is so important.”

 

Jessica stops, turns. There’s no easy way to say this and she doesn’t want to use his name because it’s ominous and disgusting and far too prevalent in Jessica’s mind already. “He’s back.”

 

Trish tucks her hair behind her ear. “It’s been a year, Jess.” Jessica turns her head and looks away again. “You saw him die,” Trish continues. God, Trish hates the way she sounds but Jessica looks so panicked, so convinced. “You saw his death certificate. This is just your PTSD--”

 

“It’s not my goddamn PTSD.” Jessica grits her teeth.

 

“Are you still having nightmares?” Trish asks.

 

Nothing.

 

“Flashbacks?”

 

Nothing.

 

Trish sighs. “You need to go back to that therapist.”

 

Jessica’s face hardens. “That quack that had me reciting street names from back home--”

 

“A proven method for managing PTSD,” Trish argues.  

 

“Two hundred bucks for ‘Birch Street, Cobalt Lane, Bullshit Drive--’”

 

Now they’re back to money again. “I told you I’d pay for it,” Trish says.

 

“Jesus Christ, Trish!” Jessica’s voice is desperate. Trish falls silent. “He’s back. He sent clients to me. This couple from Omaha. He took their daughter.” Jessica has the strange, vivid image of her saying, _Trish, I love you and you have to believe me_ , but she dismisses the thought in the next second.

 

“Why her?” Trish asks. “Is she... gifted?”

 

“A gifted athlete, maybe. Next best thing, I don’t know.” Jessica takes a breath. She can feel the words running together in her head. “But remember I told you he had the one month anniversary night?”

 

Trish doesn’t think an answer is expected, so she says nothing.

 

“And now one month from the day he took Hope, he’s doing the lingerie, the gift, the restaurant--” Jessica stops.

 

Horrified, Trish puts the pieces together. They click like an empty gun. “The hotel?” Jessica’s silence is an answer by itself. Panic rises in the pit of Trish’s stomach. She turns to go inside. “I’m calling the police.”

 

“They can’t help, Trish.” Jessica knows this and somewhere deep down inside Trish does, too, but someone has to take responsibility for stopping this guy and it shouldn’t have to be Jess, shouldn’t have to be her best friend who is still broken and angry and ready to run a year later. “You know what he can do.” Jessica hesitates. “You know what he made me do.”

 

Trish knows. Oh god, she knows, but Jessica is here and she is alive and it is (almost) like she never left except Trish knows that if Jessica does it again, she won’t be able to bear it. “So you’re running.” Her voice is flat and she is trying not to sound accusatory, but what else is there to say to get Jessica to stay?

 

“Yeah, I sure as hell am,” Jessica fires back. “If he gets ahold of me again--” Jessica stops at the look on Trish’s face. “Trish,” she breathes, _I love you but you have to let me go--_

 

“If you leave that girl with him,” Trish interrupts Jessica’s train of thought, “and--”

 

“What would you have me do?” Jessica asks bitterly. “What exactly should I do?”

 

God, this is what desperation is. A few minutes with Jessica and Trish can’t bring herself to accept that she could ever go again. “We’ll figure out a way to protect you,” she says, but it’s not convincing, not even to Trish.

 

“We?” Jessica sounds incredulous and Trish’s heart hurts. “He’s coming for me, not you.”

 

It pains her more than Trish would like to admit, that there isn’t a “we” anymore, just a “me” and a “you” and that the space between those words is six months and death-like silence. “I know,” Trish says, because she does. Technically.

 

Jessica shakes her head emphatically. “You don’t.”

 

Now it just stings. “I know one thing,” Trish snaps, “you are far better equipped to deal with that animal than some innocent girl from Omaha.” Jess turns away from her. “You’re still the person who tried to do something,” Trish finishes, voice softening.

 

Turning back around to face Trish, Jess looks her in the eye. “Tried and failed,” she says sharply. “That’s what started this.” She pauses, then shakes her head gently. “I was never the hero you wanted me to be.”

 

_But you were_ , Trish thinks. _Just because you exist._ She turns to go back into the house and tries to keep Jessica from seeing the tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. “I’ll get your money.”

 

_I love you,_ Jessica almost calls out after her, but that seems cheap, trivial. _I love you,_ she wants to say when Trish returns with an envelope of cash, but instead, she jumps off of the balcony, lets it be.

 

IV

 

_Jesus Christ_ , Trish thinks when she steps into Jessica’s apartment. There’s cardboard in lieu of the front door’s top half. “What happened to your door?”

 

“Dissatisfied customer,” Jessica mumbles. Trish raises an eyebrow. She can’t imagine Jessica being anything less than stellar at the job, what with the way she always figured out all of Trish’s secrets like they were tattooed on her skin. Jessica walks towards her desk and pulls her scarf off. After a moment of hesitation, Trish sets down her bag.

 

“Your place is… is cute,” she says, taking her coat off and looking around. It’s a mess. Dust clings to all surfaces not regularly used, but it’s better than Trish expected (or feared), and at least Jessica has an apartment with working heating and a microwave and everything.

 

Jessica shoots her a look. “You think it’s a dump.”

 

Trish sighs and drops her arms, still in their coat sleeves, to her sides. “I didn’t say that.”

 

“I know your voice.”

 

_Fair,_ Trish thinks. _That’s fair._

 

Jessica comes back from behind her desk with an envelope. She hands it to Trish, who opens it and sighs. “You’re not trying to be insulting, but you’re succeeding.”

 

“It’s not an insult,” Jessica says, leaning back against the desk, “it’s the cash I owe you.” Jessica’s always believed in paying back debts, Trish knows that, but she has no debt to repay, not when Trish will always owe her so infinitely much.

 

A minute or so passes. Trish thinks she could give the envelope back and say _repay me when there’s something worth being repaid_. Instead, she holds onto it. “So now what?” Trish asks. “With Kilgrave.” As if there were anything else.

 

Jessica breathes in deeply. Trish imagines she’s trying to decide whether she should just tell Trish to get out or actually say anything of substance. “The accident didn’t kill him, but he took a hit,” Jessica says, not too grudgingly, and there’s stupid relief in Trish’s chest. “I find his weakness, I find him.”

 

“So you find him,” Trish repeats, voice low. “Then what?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jessica admits, and Trish can tell this is a terrible plan. “I find him, I prove that girl’s innocent, he goes away.”

 

The plan is simple, succinct, and completely ridiculous. It’s basically not even a plan. “Or he controls you again,” Trish says, shuffling forward a little bit.

 

Jessica doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll die before I let that happen.”

 

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” ‘Afraid of’ is an understatement. Dreading to think about, maybe. Almost unable to verbalize the possibility of. Trish is afraid of Jessica’s death like people are afraid of the end of the world: abstractly, perhaps, but not really, because there won’t be anything left after it and nothing will matter. She doesn’t want to keep thinking about this. “Listen, I think you should move in with me again.” She motions towards the door with the envelope of cash. “I have a security system, a doorman. I have an actual lock on my door.”

 

“You think I’ll be safe there?” Jessica stands. “I’m not safe anywhere.” She places her hand on the desk. “Every corner I turn, I don’t know what’s on the other side. I don’t know who’s on the other side.”

 

Trish straightens her head. Her eyes flicker towards a spot on the wall where the paint has chipped off and the plaster is showing through.

 

“It could be the cabbie who’s gonna drive me into the East River, okay? It could be the FedEx woman. It could be a talk show host who was my best friend.”

 

It’s the past tense that hurts the most.

 

Not the force with which Jessica says the words, not the content of the sentence, not the way she is glaring at Trish but still not making eye contact. It’s the past tense, the implication that whatever they were has been completed and will never be again. Trish doesn’t want to be conjugated, not in past tense, not even in past-perfect or present-progressive. She won’t be a part of Jess’s I-used-to spiel, and as she stares at her, trying to find the right words to say, she thinks, _why do you talk about me as if I am dead?_

 

She raises her eyebrows and tries to compose herself. Her lips move, but nothing comes out, then, finally:

 

“Was?”

 

“I’m life-threatening, Trish,” Jessica says. Trish doesn’t doubt it for a moment, but that doesn’t mean she cares. “Steer clear of me.”

 

Trish looks up at her. She shakes her head. “I don’t do that.”

 

“Please.” _I love you and you need to stay away._ “I can’t risk you.” Jessica figures the delivery will have to insinuate the intended meaning.

 

Sighing, Trish fumbles with the envelope. She picks up her coat, doesn’t bother putting it on, grabs her bag, and turns to go. She stops and looks at Jessica, then shakes her head and walks towards the door. Unbelievable.

 

She’s about to step out of the apartment when Jessica opens her mouth. “It had the name on it,” she says. Trish turns in the middle of the doorway.

 

“What?”

 

“The door.” Jessica motions towards it. Trish looks at the cardboard. “Alias Investigations. I had it made special.”

 

It’s a beginning. Not much, but Trish will take it. “I like it.” She smiles.

  
  


V

 

Trish can feel the rush of--well, whatever she took--flooding through her and she has never felt so immortal, like her skin isn’t thin as paper, like her bones aren’t eggshells, she won’t die, ever, she won’t--

 

“Is this what it feels like for you?” She asks, breathlessly, but she doesn’t need air, not right now, not ever again (probably). “Like, all the time?”

 

“Trish, why don’t you slow down for a minute?” Jessica looks horrified and Trish can’t figure out why because Jessica doesn’t have to save her anymore, she doesn’t have to be saved ever again and shouldn’t Jessica be happy about that, shouldn’t she?

 

“I can’t!” Trish says excitedly, clapping her hands together. “I’m too-- psyched, I’m too--”

 

And then the air disappears from her lungs and Trish  is telling them to breathe, breathe, but they don’t/won’t/can’t and her brain hurts and she’s gasping for air like a fish except she’d just drown in water, and Jessica says, “Trish, say something,” and Trish grasps at her own collarbones, at her chest, but there is nothing.

 

“I can’t,” she manages to choke out,

 

“Trish,” Jess says. Trish has the sinking feeling that maybe the feeling of Simpson’s skin giving way under her fist was worth this but Jessica’s face isn’t, especially as Trish pitches forward and hits the wooden floor. “Oh my god, Trish, Trish, don’t do this,” Jessica begs, holding Trish’s head in her hands, “Are you okay?” Trish tries to say something but can only gasp for want of air. “Trish, breathe. Trish!”

 

Slinging her hand across her stomach in the hopes that it’ll do something, Trish writhes on the floor. Jessica fumbles in her pocket and dials hastily, phone and hands shaking. “I need an ambulance--” she looks down at Trish; her ribcage constricts; her chest is too small for the way her heart is beating right now; she rattles off her address; she hangs up the phone. “Trish, they’re on their way,” she promises and holds Trish’s head in her hands. “Trish, Trish, don’t do this--” she’s hysterical. “Trish!”

 

This isn’t how Trish is going to die. Jessica won’t let Trish die on her apartment floor because some asshole cop decided this was how he was going to inadvertently ruin their lives; she’ll take back every breath she’s ever taken before it comes to that. Jessica pushes down on Trish’s chest. She tries not to break any ribs.

 

Lack of air is like a cloth being stuffed down Trish’s throat. It hurts, so badly, it feels like her skull is going to explode, and then it must have, because there’s nothing, there’s Jessica’s voice, there’s Jessica’s hands, shaking and warm, there’s nothing, there’s nothing--

Air floods into her body and Trish can’t see. There are only blurred shapes above her and her mouth is dry like after waking from a long sleep. “Oh my god, Trish,” someone says, and she recognizes Jessica’s voice, and then her eyes focus and she can see. “Are you alright?”

 

Trish can only gasp in response.

 

“Is she going to be okay?” Jessica demands from the EMT, then turns back to Trish. “Trish.” She shakes Trish a little bit, who finally manages to make eye contact. “Trish!”

 

She wants to say _I love you, never do that again_ , the words are on her tongue and she can feel them already twisting in the air. Something inside her protests, kicking and screaming. Jessica holds back. “God damn you,” she breathes, and it’s not _I love you,_ but Christ, it’s close enough.

 

I

 

“Come here, Patsy.”

 

God, she hates that name. It reeks of her mother and showbusiness and all sorts of disgusting things Trish never wants to go back to. Of course Kilgrave uses it. It’s even worse coming from his mouth.

 

She doesn’t even notice her feet walking over to him, her hand in his. He pets her hair and she wants to recoil and step away but her feet won’t let her. Her brain won’t let her.

 

“You’d do anything to protect her, wouldn’t you?” Kilgrave asks.

 

“Yes.” Jessica says it simply. The rest of the conversation is background noise to Trish, quiet as the water lapping against the dock, until it’s not and she can hear every word with sickening clarity.

 

“My skin will be touching hers,” Kilgrave sneers and Trish manages to turn her head to stare at Jessica in wordless horror. She thinks she would be shaking if he would allow it. “She’ll be my plaything. She’ll be my slave.” He turns his head to look at Jessica. “And in her mind, she’ll be dying, isn’t that right?”

 

I’m already dying, Trish realizes. I’m already dead.

 

“We’re leaving!” He announces, then leads her towards the boat. “If Patsy--” goddamnit, will he ever stop? “--or I ever hear from you, or see you, see anyone who looks like you--” Trish thinks that she could kick him in the back of the knees now and knock him over the head once he goes down, but her limbs are rebelling against her brain and refuse to do what they’re told. “She will slit her own throat. It’s the ultimate contingency.”

 

Jessica watches them kiss. She wants to run up to them and grab his hair, pull it back, and throw him into the harbor. Maybe against the boat and then into the water. She could do it; she knows that. But Trish is too close to him for comfort, he could take her down with him, snarl “drown yourself” at her while Jessica is trying to reach them. So she stays put, hair waving in the breeze, and tries to contain herself.

 

After a moment, he stops--finally, Trish and Jess both think in unison-- and pulls away from Trish, staring at Jessica with a bewildered expression. “Oh god, it’s true, isn’t it,” he says. His voice is full of wonder. “You would let me take your beloved sister.”

 

_You’re not taking anything,_ Jessica thinks fiercely.

 

“My God,” Kilgrave breathes. “It’s finally over, you’re mine now. No more fighting--no more--no more of these ugly displays,” he stammers. “You’ll be with me now.”

 

Jessica’s breath hitches in her throat. She just has to wait for him to get close enough-- a moment more, or maybe two. “However long it takes,” he continues, “I know, I know you will feel what I feel.” His eyes are light, joyful almost. Jessica is disgusted. “Let’s start with a smile.”

 

Raising her lips up into what has to be the most gruesome grin ever, Jessica obeys. _Just a few more seconds._

 

“Tell me you love me,” he whispers into her ear, and Jessica decides that's enough. She looks away from him. The smile slips from her face. She looks Trish square in the eye.

 

“I love you,” she says, completely sincere. It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be. Truth is easy to accept once it's been spoken. Trish realizes only a second before Kilgrave does, and she tears up, relief flooding her body. Jessica turns back to Kilgrave. She snaps his neck.

 

When the police comes to take Jessica to the station, she makes eye contact with Trish, wrapped in a shock blanket and giving testimony.

 

Trish tilts her head. _Did you mean it?_ Her eyes seem to ask, red-rimmed and with dark shadows.

 

_Every word_ , Jessica wants to shout, _and the ones I never said_.

 

She nods.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr! my url is jesstrishs


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